


Parcel Post

by mmmuse



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 20:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse
Summary: It all started with a little surprise in a Christmas support package for a soldier in Afghanistan. A Modern Romelza AU.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So, a little plot bunny came out to play while I was visiting with Rainpuddle...we'll see where this goes. Thanks for entrusting me with another of your wee bun-buns, my friend! 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts and thanks for your support.

“Mama, why are you sending all of the biccies away?”

Demelza looked up from the parcel she was packing at the sound of her daughter Julia’s voice. Her four-year-old baby’s soft blue eyes were trained on the packet of shortbread biscuits in her mother’s right hand. “They aren’t getting all of them, sweetheart. You had two only a few minutes ago.” She checked the snacks off her spreadsheet and collected the cans of condensed milk next on the list. “Your Uncle Samuel suggested we put together  care packages for some of the soldiers away from home, remember?”

Julia nodded. “The ones who might not get a visit from Santa?”

“That’s right,” Demelza said, her brow furrowing a little with the fib, the only one she’d been able to think of when Julia had questioned the piles of snack foods taking over their kitchen counters. “We’ve only a few more things to go into the boxes.”

“Do you know who they are?” her daughter asked.

“No, we don’t, honey.” That was the way the program worked, her brother had explained: you send the parcels in and they are randomly distributed to a soldier. They have the option to write back, but they are not required to do so. Simple enough, right? Except when you happened to have a smart, inquisitive little girl who was full of questions.

When Thomas Carne’s prodigal daughter turned up on his doorstep, eighteen years old, single and pregnant, he’d been forced to put his newfound Methodism to the test. But the instant baby Julia Carne uttered her first howl she’d had him -- and soon the rest of the family -- wrapped her wee little finger. It’d been a good thing, too, for Demelza would never have been able to straighten the meandering path she’d wandered down if it hadn’t been for her family and her mentor.

She’d met Jane Gimlett, the owner of Perranporth Bakery when she’d answered an ad for part-time work. Jane had been so impressed with Demelza’s skills that she’d offered the young mother an apprenticeship when she returned after maternity leave. Jane’s guidance, along with Sally Chegwidden Carne’s love of babysitting wee Julia had made it possible for Demelza to turn things around. Five years later, she’d found herself enjoying her second profitable season with Demelza’s Delectables and was beginning to entertain the prospects of expanding in the spring.

All of the long hours required to forge a successful career in specialty pasties had left no time for a social life, that was for certain, not that she’d had any desire to get tied up with a man ever again. The one who’d given her the greatest gift of her life had run the moment she’d told him the news and it had devastated her.  She’d resisted when her brother suggested she participate in the parcel program, thinking it was yet another hair-brained attempt to set her up with a fine, upstanding military man. She’d finally relented only after he assured her she’d be under no obligation to continue correspondence, even if the recipients sent her a note of thanks.

“---snowflake?”

Demelza blinked, returning her attention to her child. “I’m sorry, Julia, what did you say?”

“I asked if I could send them snowflakes!” They’d made snowflakes from folded up paper and safety scissors earlier that day. The glittering remnants of their decorating could still be seen twinkling in her daughter’s fine, strawberry-blonde hair. “Pleeeeease?” The little girl danced on her toes.

“I think they would love one,” Demelza grinned, dusting a kiss on Julia’s nose. “Go run to your room and get three of them for me, love. One for each box.”

Ten minutes later, the last piece of packing tape was in place and the two Carnes headed towards the post office.

 

“Package for you, Captain Poldark, sir.” Ross Poldark, a captain in 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards glanced away from his battered laptop to frown at the young private standing in the doorway of the officer’s quarters. She held a box that made her arms quiver with effort. He jumped from his seat, circled the desk and plucked it from her hands. “Thank you, sir.”

“What is this, Private Hoblin?” he asked, peering at the postmark.

“A package from Soldier’s Angels, sir,” the young woman responded. “You were one of the platoon’s selected recipients.”

Ross shook his head. “No, this should go to one of the enlisted troops,” he insisted.

“Colonel Pascoe thought you would say that, s-s-sir,” Private Hoblin said, swallowing heavily. She tucked an envelope under Ross’s thumb. “He said I was to give this to you if you refused it.”

Ross set the box on his desk with a thump, tore open the end of the envelope with his teeth and slipped out the sheet of foolscap: _Consider this to be a direct order, Poldark. That is all._ Ross swore under his breath. “That’ll be all, private. Thank you.”

Private Hoblin wasted no time clearing the room, leaving Ross to drum his fingers along the box’s seam. _Of all the bloody nerve,_ Ross thought to himself. Pascoe had been all over him in recent weeks. It was no secret he hadn’t been himself this time around. He and Elizabeth had had yet another massive falling out before left for this deployment, going so far as to agree to take a break from their relationship during his absence. He’d been able to perform his duties, of course, but the entire situation was a distraction he simply didn’t need.

“Well, there’s nothing to stop me from doling out the items inside the parcel to someone else, is there?” he muttered as he searched for the box cutter. Ross shut the canvas flap on his door and dug in.

He couldn’t help but chuckle when he came across the sparkling snowflakes that greeted him the moment the lid was opened. He also knew several of the troops would appreciate the treats and trinkets inside, packs of beef jerky for Mark and the tins of condensed milk would be fought over by Zacky and Paul. As he searched, he encountered items that could only have come from Cornwall: specialty crisps and Bakewell tarts from the bakery near Nampara. His throat grew tight at the memories of home, wishing he were back there instead of having six more months of a third tour to endure.

He sighed heavily, pulling out items until they all but covered his desk until his hand closed over a small, soft item buried deep at the bottom of the parcel.  He slowly withdrew his hand, revealing a handmade puppy doll. It wasn’t new by any stretch of the imagination. One of the button eyes was loose and the yarn near the left ear was coming undone. In fact, it was clear the toy was well loved and, while his exposure to children was negligible, something like this would be deeply missed by its owner.

They were not under any obligation to return a message to the sender of the care packages, but this was a special case. He picked up the return address card he’d set aside before he’d begun unearthing the package. “Demelza Carne, 23 St Pirans Rd, Perranporth.”

He tapped the card on the side of his cheek before setting it and the toy on top of the shelf over his bunk and stuck his head out of his doorway. His eyes narrowed on Zacky Martin, Paul Daniel and his brother Mark. The threesome was huddled around the flat screen telly, waving game controllers and shouting obscenities as they continued their battle for supremacy over FIFA. They were his best mates, comrades he’d met during their first deployment. They’d done everything they could to stick together, too.

“Paul, Zacky, Mark!” Ross called.  “Care package items up for grabs!” He laughed when they dropped their controllers and clambered over and around the couch to reach the office. The noise and friendly bickering over the items made Ross smile, as did the little dog with the lopsided eyes.


	2. Bastion to Perranporth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started with a little surprise in a Christmas support package for a soldier in Afghanistan. A Modern Romelza AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the overwhelming support you've shown for this little fluffy fic! It's been a blast to write so far...hope you enjoy this next little chapter, too.

“Really, Poldark? Was it that bad?” Ross turned his head at the sound of his friend Dwight Enys’s voice. The doctor leaned against the doorframe of the recovery ward, a smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, you pillock, it was,” he muttered as he rubbed his upper arms. He’d cursed himself for not heading to the infirmary earlier in the day when the sun had been out and warm. It was bloody cold in the Afghan desert after the sun made its nightly disappearance below the horizon. The gore-tex, camouflage jacket had cut the wind a considerable amount, but his service beret had done fuck all about the heat leaching from the top of his head. He could have taken a jeep, but he’d have got an unceasing amount of stick if he’d done so. “This cold is a world of suck.”

The reason for the mad, half-mile dash from the comfort of his bunk in the officer’s quarters? It all had to do with the small, crocheted dog in his pocket.

He’d thought long and hard about what he should do with the little toy since its arrival two days before. Who was the mysterious little boy or girl who’d sent it along with their mother’s care package? How old were they? Did their mother know it had made its way into the box? It brought a smile and lightness of spirit each time he’d seen the little pup on his shelf near his bunk, something in short supply around the camp. Based on the well-loved condition of the handmade toy Ross knew the child would be missing it and admitted there’d only been one thing to do: sent it back home. The only problem was he didn’t have anything to use to do so.

Enter Dwight. “We’ve got some in the storeroom,” he’d offered during dinner. “Bring the thing over, and we’ll have a look.”

Dwight clasped Ross’s shoulder. “Got some tea, mate. Come on back.”

Ten minutes later, Ross was in a much better mood. “Where did you get the whiskey?” he drawled. Alcohol was verboten in Afghanistan.

Dwight chuckled. “Snuck a bit in by hiding it in my shower kit.”

Ross nodded with approval. “Crafty bastard." He took another deep sip of his hot, spiked tea. “So, do you think you’ve got something for this?” He dug into his pocket, pulled out the little dog and laid it on the desk. Dwight picked it up, and Ross’s breath caught in his throat. “Careful,” he warned, extending a hand as if to take it from his friend. “The left eye was loose, so I did my best to sew it back into place, but you know I’m crap with a needle.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” the doctor chuckled, giving the toy a comedically thorough examination. “Well, you seem to have managed not to leave the poor thing with too many scars.” He glanced up at Ross. “It is charming. And thoughtful.”

Ross nodded, taking the toy from his friend. “I want to get it in the mail before we set out tomorrow afternoon.” They were slated to go on a recon to Marjah, 30 kilometres west of the Helmand capital Lashkar Gah, where there’d been an increase in activity from the Taliban. Ross was not a fatalist by any stretch of the imagination, but he was a realist. The toy should go back now, just in case he wasn’t in a condition to return it later.

“Understood,” Dwight agreed. He rifled through a drawer in the desk and removed several envelopes in varying sizes. “One of these should do.” They found the one on the third try. “Nw, you _are_ going to include a note back, aren’t you?”

“You think I should?” Ross asked. “I don’t want them to think they’re obligated to respond. They’ve done enough.”

 _But did he mean that?_ Dwight snorted. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer. Now, take your arse back to your quarters and get to writing.”

Ross gestured with his empty mug. “Get me a pen, paper and another cup of tea, and I’ll come up with something right now. I’ll be damned if I don’t have this sealed and ready to go before I have to go out in that misery again.”

“Coming right up, Captain Poldark,” Dwight said, grabbing the mug and heading towards the kettle. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I don’t quite know what’s got into our baby.” Sally Carne’s usually chipper voice fairly oozed with concern in the way Demelza had come to dread. Her stepmother, a gem when it came to child-minding for Julia, bordered on the dramatic. “She’s been prickly these past few weeks.”

“I suspect it has something to do with the fact that Christmas is over.” Demelza turned the wheel of her Dacia Sandero and eased the car into her drive. “She’s always a bit down after we’ve put away all of the holiday decorations. Anyway, I’m just pulling in, Sally, so I’ll see you in a minute.”

Inventory was one of those aspects of business she’d never enjoyed, even when she was working in the Gimlett’s bakery as an apprentice. It was, however, something that had to be done. The one thing she’d refused to do was use her only day off -- Sunday -- for the task. Those were reserved for her best girl. So Demelza closed up the bakery at noon the second Saturday of January every year in order tally up all of the supplies, tins, utensils and other debris collected over the past three-hundred and sixty-four days and order what replacements were needed for the next.

She turned off the ignition and leaned back against the seat of her car, weary to the bone. All she wanted was a tub filled with hot water and a glass of wine, but she had a fractious daughter to get sorted first. “C’mon, Carne,” she muttered to herself as she planted her feet on the gravel drive, groaning as she stood and stretched. “No time like the present.”

“Don’t wanna!” The sound of wailing cries nearly burst Demelza’s eardrums the instant she opened the door. “No, no, no, no!”

She caught sight of her child, naked as the day she’d been born, racing past the arched entry to the kitchen, her Grammy in hot pursuit. The nightly bathtime ritual had begun. Why the girl put up such a fuss at bath time was a mystery. “Julia Grace, you will stop that right now,” Demelza growled, slamming the door and stumbling over the blocks that had been left in a tumble in the middle of the parlour.

“Mama!” Julia whined, her bare feet slapping against the hardwoods an instant before she launched herself up into her mother’s arms and wept as if her heart would break.

“What’s all this then?” Demelza murmured against the crown of her daughter’s head.She lifted her baffled gaze to meet her stepmother’s. For once, it appeared Sally’s dramatics had been spot on.

“I told you, she’s been like this all day,” Sally Carne declared with a nod, wringing her hands. “She refused to go down for her nap---”

“---Never a good thing,” Demelza teased, happy to see a smile soften the older woman’s face. “I’m sorry, go on.”

Sally rubbed Julia’s back. “Aside from being tired, none of the usual things that always brighten her spirits seemed to do the trick.”

“Not even _Shaun the Sheep_?” Demelza asked, mentioning one of Julia’s favourite television shows.The only answer to be had was a barely there whimper and head shake against her neck. “But what about tea party?” Thomas Carne had surprised the little girl with her very own tea set for her birthday in May. Nary a Saturday had gone by without Julia holding court over a gathering of stuffed bears and dollies over watered-down Earl Grey tea. “You know how much Garrick likes to guard the sugar bowl.”

“Oh, no, Mama!” The sobs that had softened to watery hiccups ballooned back to howls.

Demelza was flummoxed. “Do you need me to stay with you, dear?” Sally offered.

Worry lined her stepmother’s face. “You’ve had a long day with her. You should head home to Da. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re sure?”

Demelza nodded and pressed a kiss to Sally’s papery cheek. “Thanks for today.”

She was vaguely aware of Sally gathering her things to leave, but her focus had shifted entirely to her daughter. Julia’s cry had changed as she’d aged, but there remained something of the sound Demelza had heard at the baby’s birth that had imprinted onto her soul. It was elemental, and fierce, could often cause her breasts to tingle and ache as they had when she’d breastfed. It was a call that had to be answered. “Baby girl,” Demelza crooned, soft and low, her hand stroking Julia’s trembling back. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“M-Mama,” the girl sniffled wetly against her mother’s throat. “G-G-Garrick is g-g-gone.”

“What?” Demelza settled back against the armchair and craned her neck to meet her daughter’s sparkling eyes. “Where could he go?”

Julia bit her bottom lip, something she always did when she misbehaved, or when she had a secret. “I sent him away,” she admitted, her fingers twisting in her mother’s curling hair.

“You sent him away?” Curiouser and curiouser. “Did you put him somewhere you know you’re not to go, like the garden shed?” There were all kinds of sharp, dangerous tools she’d kept there, which was why it was off limits for the baby. Not that that had stopped Julia from poking around in there only last summer.

Julia shook her head. “I mean _away_ away, Mama!”

 _What on earth?_ “Why did you do that, darling? Was he bad?”

“No, no, no, Mama.” The tears were giving way to frustration. “I thought he needed him more than me, but I changed my mind and want him back.”

Demelza shook her head. Far too many “hims” to track.  “I’m sorry, honey, I’m not following you. Where did you send Garrick?”

“To the soldier!” Julia exclaimed, raising wide, blue-grey eyes brilliant with tears before burrowing in against her neck, new sobs dampening her mother’s t-shirt.

“The soldier?” Demelza was completely confounded for a full minute before a niggling thought crept its way into the back of her mind. “Wait a second. Do you mean the Christmas presents we sent to the soldiers?”

The child nodded emphatically. “Yes! You told me that the soldiers were in a dangerous place and sometimes got lonely. Garrick would do a good job protecting the soldier.”

“Oh, Julia.” Demelza rocked the child in her arms as the enormity of the situation dawned. It had been weeks since she’d sent the packages to Afghanistan. They’d been distributed anonymously, so any attempt to locate the toy would be insurmountable. But how did one explain that to a four-year-old child? “Garrick is very, very far away now.”

“Can’t you write to Uncle Sammy and tell him to get Garrick back for me?”

Samuel had gone back to Afghanistan just the week before to resume his service as chaplain at Camp Bastion. “Perhaps,” Demelza hedged, her mind racing for ideas. Sally had been the one to make the little dog. Could she be prevailed upon to make another one to replace him? That sounded like a simpler scheme than to attempt to locate the soldier himself. Decision made, she hugged her child and sat her back to meet her eyes. “How about we write a letter to your uncle---”

“Yes, Mama!” Julia agreed, happily nodding as she wiped her tear-stained cheeks.

“After your bath.”

The angelic smile turned into a scowl. “Yes, Mama,” Julia grumbled.

 

Two hours later, Demelza wandered into the kitchen. She’d had a time of it with Julia, getting her bathed and into her nightie before sitting down to write Samuel. Julia, of course, dictated: 

> Dear Uncle Sammy,
> 
> How are you? I sent Garrick to a soldier at Christmas. Can you find him for me, please? Mama says stay safe. Bye.
> 
> Love from Julia

Demelza had to promise to let Julia make a drawing for the letter in the morning before the little girl would go to sleep. She was raising an extortionist.

“A night for a glass of wine, if there ever was one.” Demelza plucked a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and a glass from the sideboard. “Or maybe two.” She was about to return to the parlour, where she’d turned on the electric fire and the telly when she noticed the stack of mail sitting on the counter. “Bollocks.” Did she want to deal with bills at nine o’clock at night, especially after the day she’d had? She was tempted to leave it there until the morning but remembered: Sundays are for Julia. “Being an adult sucks sometimes,” she muttered aloud, setting the bottle down and scooping the pile against her hip.

The wine might have to wait, but curling up in her favourite chair certainly did not. But as Demelza made her way to the dark green upholstered armchair, her attention turned to the medium-sized, padded envelope at the bottom of the stack of correspondence, smiling when she recognised the return address: Camp Bastion. Funny she should receive something from Sam when they’d just spent their evening preparing a new letter for him. The odd thing was the handwriting on the envelope did not belong to her brother. A quiver of anxiety tickled the back of her throat as she used the string embedded at the end of the envelope to open it and peered inside.

It was Garrick.

“What on earth?” Demelza exclaimed, turning the envelope upside down. She picked up the little, stuffed toy and turned it over in her hands. She recognised the frayed ear right away -- Julia had used the poor thing while she was teething -- but frowned when she noticed the two button eyes, all lined up and secure. She knew that the last time she’d seen the dog one of them had dangled loosely with a threat to come undone. Someone had taken the time to resew it into place, and that simple action made her heart melt.   

What were the chances that one of her packages would have reached someone in Sam’s regiment? She turned the envelope over to peer at the return address once more, and a folded sheet of paper slipped free and fell into her lap. She picked it up with shaking fingers and unfolded the letter to read:

 

> 27 December 2013
> 
> To the owner of this dog,
> 
> You will be pleased to know he arrived safely and has served his country well during his short stay in camp. His cheerful company was very much appreciated during the holidays. One of our medics tended to the injury to his eye and has reported him to be in tip-top shape for his journey home. His new friends thank you for the treats you sent and wish you a very happy new year.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Ross V Poldark  
>  Captain, 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards  
>  Camp Bastion  
>  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  
  



	3. Perranporth to Bastion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started with a little surprise in a Christmas support package for a soldier in Afghanistan. A Modern Romelza AU.

 

> 20 January 2014
> 
> Ross V Poldark  
> Captain, 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards  
>  Camp Bastion  
> Helmand Province, Afghanistan
> 
> Dear Captain Poldark,
> 
> Thank you so very much for returning my daughter’s toy puppy, Garrick.

Demelza’s pen hovered over the greeting card she’d been hunched over for the better part of her tea break. Ginny Carter, her sole employee, tended the dough they’d prepared for the next day’s pasties while a large sheet tray of carefully measured balls of minced beef, swede, onion and potatoes awaited their fate. Why Demelza was struggling to continue the note, she had no idea. Perhaps it was because she was tempted to say something stupidly sentimental to a strange man she didn’t know. She couldn’t help herself: this soldier half a world away had had the sensitivity to return a raggedy toy to her little girl, and that meant something to her mind. _Speak from the heart, you git._

> Julia is a kind-hearted, mischievous child, with a great love of a surprise or prank. She meant well in sending him along to you -- her Uncle Samuel is the chaplain in your unit, and she knows he is often lonely and missing home -- but it’s clear she didn’t think it through to the point where she’d miss the little dog. And I must say your timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as she’d spent most of the evening in such a state and demanded we write her uncle to see if he could find Garrick for her! Your letter, your thoughtfulness in fixing his eye has had her smiling since we received it on the 18th.
> 
> And I hope you enjoyed the care package we sent. It was such a thrill to know the items from Cornwall were received by some of our local boys and girls so far away from here.
> 
> Your name is familiar to me as I purchase some of the ingredients I use at my pasty shop here in Perranporth from Nampara Farm. It’s such a beautiful place, and the people you have tending the farm are just as kind and helpful as they can be.

Once again Demelza paused, nibbling her bottom lip. As soon as she’d finished reading his letter, she’d instantly recognized his name and his connection to the farm she’d come to love visiting once a week to select her fresh ingredients.

She’d googled him, of course. She was curious what he looked like; it was always easier for her to write a letter if she had an image of the recipient in her mind. She was surprised by what she found. Pleasantly surprised, if she had to say so. Somewhat fierce looking in appearance, with dark, almost black hair that bore a hint of a curl even at regulation length. A handsome, masculine face, with a strong jaw, full lips, straight nose, winged, furrowed brows that framed the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen on a man. Or woman, for that matter. She couldn’t discern the color from the small, military portrait that had popped up on her screen, but they were compelling, regardless of their hue.

Ginny would have called him “smoking hot”. Demelza snorted out a laugh and felt her cheeks warm. _Well, she’s right_ , _but that shouldn’t be my focus as I figure out how to end this note._  

> I hope you continue to remain safe during the rest of your deployment and wish you and the rest of our troops home sooner rather than later.
> 
> All the best,  
>  Demelza Carne

There. Demelza tucked the card inside its envelope and placed it, unsealed, in her tote bag. Julia had made her promise not to close it up until she’d finished the drawing she’d started for “the soldier”, as she’d taken to calling Ro… _Captain Poldark_ , Demelza corrected herself. “How is the dough, Ginny?” she said, wrenching her mind back to business.

“Just finishing it up now,” the girl stated, hoisting the last mound of the shortcrust pastry for which the bakery was growing renowned. “Will have enough for the new recipe for apple and dried cherry pasties you wanted to try.”

“Excellent.” Demelza grinned. She’d been sampling the mix for her new dessert pasties for the last week and had finally figured out the ratios required for concoction that was both tart and sweet. “Let’s plow through these so we can spend the rest of the time playing, shall we?” The next few hours passed quickly as both young women fell into the rhythm they’d established for quickly assembling the pies. Ginny loved the final apple and cherry filling recipe, and came up with the idea for adding a bit of cardamom for an unexpected flavor note. In the end, they made a full dozen of the pasties, splitting the first between them to sample.

It was divine. “Oh, God,” Ginny mumbled through her third bite of the treat. “Folks will go barmy over these, Demelza.”

"Barmy is fine, as long as they buy them in droves,” she quipped merrily, packing up a couple to take home. “Ginny, be sure to take a couple for your parents. We’ll save the rest to use for samples tomorrow. To whet the appetites of the neighborhood, you know?”

“Thanks, Demelza,” Ginny said, tossing her apron in the laundry basket. “Have a good evening and I’ll see you at noon tomorrow.”

Demelza waved the young girl off and added her apron to the pile to take home. She made sure the ovens were turned off before slipping into her down coat, hoisting the basket onto her hip and locking up for the night.

Fifteen minutes later, she was greeted with squeals of merriment as Julia bounded up and threw her arms around her mother’s legs, nearly upsetting the laundry. “Mamamamamama! Me and Grammy fingerpainted today!”

Demelza lifted a horrified gaze at her stepmother. “Please tell me she washed her hands before she hugged me just now.” The older woman’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Good thing it’s laundry night tonight.”

Ninety minutes later, with the wash and supper sorted, Demelza read through the letter Julia had prepared for Captain Poldark.

“Is it okay, Mama?” her daughter asked, the last syllable of her sentence stretching on for what felt like forever on the strength of her yawn.

“Yes, it’s perfect,” Demelza said, surprised to find her throat tightening a bit. She was so very pleased her little girl was growing up to be such a compassionate person. The fingerpainted portrait was still a little damp and would require a larger envelope, necessitating a trip to the post office in the morning to send it on its way. “What do you think of sending along a snapshot of you and me, baby?”

Julia’s sleepy eyes widened with happiness. “Oh, yes, Mama! Which one?”

Demelza sighed, continuing to worry her bottom lip with her teeth. They’ll be chapped if I keep this up. “I thought the one from Christmas morning.” She pulled the photo from the pocket of her sweater. There they sat in front of the tree, decorated with strings of popcorn and paper chains, smiling broadly into her father’s camera.

“Yes, Mama, that’s the best,” Julia declared.

It was about as homey as one could get. Demelza hoped it wouldn’t be too much, that it wouldn’t make the man think she was being too forward. “Alright then,” she said, tucking the photo back in her pocket and kissing her best girl on her forehead. “Now, go to sleep like a good girl, okay?” The mischievous giggle she received as a response made her think otherwise. Demelza tucked Garrick into the crook of Julia’s arm. “Good night, baby girl.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

> _25 January 2014 Lashkar Gah (AP)_ _Taliban militants in Afghanistan have killed eleven and injured six Western Coalition troops in an ambush in Helmand Province, police have told the BBC. T_ _he convoy was attacked on Sunday evening in Marjah, thirty kilometers west of the Helmand capital Lashkar Gah, officials say. Air support secured the site of the ambush within thirty minutes of the assault. A spokesman from Camp Bastion told the BBC that one British officer was among those killed in the latest fighting._
> 
> _The ambush follows heavy fighting last week in the northern province of Kunduz._

~*~*~*~*~*~

Valentine’s Day brought a flood of requests for special cakes and desserts to Demelza’s Delectables and kept the owner of the shop’s mind occupied in two different directions. The first, of course, being that of the onslaught of orders that had her racing around on her toes for most of the morning. The second, however, was one of her own damn making. It had been several weeks since she’d sent the envelope containing her greeting card and Julia’s painting off to Captain Ross Poldark in the far away Helmand Province of Afghanistan. She shouldn’t have expected a response. Hadn’t she told herself that this was not about starting a string of correspondence with a man she’d never met? It hadn’t stopped her overactive imagination from running away with itself, imagining all kinds of scenarios and pipe dreams with him. She found herself getting moodier as the weeks had gone by, and for what?

“To wallow in a pit of scenarios and pipe dreams your overactive imagination had created between the two of you, that’s what,” she grumbled to herself as she piped chocolate buttercream frosting on a heart-shaped cake for two.

She paused in her work, took a deep breath and counted to ten. She couldn’t afford to be in a shitty mood on one of her busiest days of the year! And Valentine’s Day had been one of her favourite holidays, once upon a time, until five years before. It had been ruined that day, for it was the day she’d told Hugh Armitage that he was going to be a father.

He was impossibly handsome. Tall and slender, with honey-blond curls that made a woman’s hands twitch to get their hands in it. Dove-grey eyes that seemed to see right into one’s soul. Demelza had met him when she’d snuck out to meet a friend at a club she’d had no business going to in the first place. She’d given him her number more on a dare from Keren than a real hope he would ever call. That call had come a day later with an invitation to visit Holy Well for a picnic where she’d managed to topple arse over teacup for him.

They’d been dating for almost a year and a half when she missed a period. She’d tried not to worry about it at first, but she’d always been as regular as the tide and when the smell of the fish counter at the market had sent her scrambling for the nearest bin she’d had to assume she’d fallen pregnant, despite the precautions they’d taken. A pregnancy test, picked up that very day, had confirmed it.

A baby. Demelza had always longed to be a mother, despite the years she’d spent helping to raise her brothers after her namesake had died. She had a natural touch when it came to babies. She may have wished for it to have happened sometime later, once she was older and married. After the initial shock of the news subsided, she’d grown more excited about the prospect of a child of her own, to love and dote upon.

But would Hugh be as happy as she was? Would he be prepared to stand by her, and to support her and their child? If she’d had any anxiety about the entire situation it had been whether he’d meant everything he’d said. He’d showered her with compliments, had written the most beautiful poetry for her and waved off the differences in their social classes as easily as if it were a mote of dust. He’d finally told her he loved her on a sleigh ride during the Christmas holidays, and if he’d meant everything he’d said, then they could start a new life together.

He’d proposed they go to a new bistro that had opened in Truro for Valentine’s Day, and she spent most of their dinner pushing around the excellent pasta primavera with her fork until he’d asked her what was wrong.

_“You said you loved me, isn’t that right, Hugh?” she asked, setting her fork aside._

_“Yes, of course I do,” he responded, catching her hand in his. “What is it?”_

_“I’m pregnant.” The words tumbled from her mouth unbidden._

_He stared at her, his face blank with shock, for what felt like an eternity. “Y-You’re preg…” His voice trailed off as he swallowed. “But how?”_

_“Condoms aren’t always perfect, Hugh.” She was surprised at how calm she sounded._

_He nodded, his eyes trained on the glass of wine he’d ordered. “What are your plans, Demelza?” he asked._

_“What do you mean?” she said. Nausea roiled in her stomach when he looked at her, his eyes steely and cold. “You mean, am I going to get rid of it?”_

_“It’s the only thing that makes sense, Demelza,” Hugh stated, templing his fingers in front of his lips._ He can’t even hold my hand, _she thought to herself._

_“But you said you loved me, Hugh.” She struggled to keep her tears at bay, the effort causing her voice to dip deeper into something she didn’t recognize. “You said it was only a matter of time before you told your family about us.”_

_“Time being relative.” He flushed, his voice louder than usual, which drew the attention of some of the other patrons in the restaurant. “I hadn’t any thought of telling my family about you for at least another year, Demelza.”_

_“A year?” Any trace of the sadness that had threatened to envelop her was seared away by anger his words instilled within her. “Why the delay, Hugh?_

_"You’ve barely completed secondary, Demelza,” he hissed. “And I’ve only started my internship. There’s no hope of having a salaried position for several years yet.” He raked his hand through his tousled hair. “How am I expected to support a child?”_

_“You’re in a much better situation to do so than I am,” she snarled, “and yet I’m not backing away from my responsibility! All you wish to do is to have me throw it away like so much rubbish, which I would never do, not in a million years.”_

_He raised an eyebrow. “If you decide to keep it, know I’ll not have anything to do with it.”_

_Demelza knew the baby she carried was incapable of surviving on its own, was still in the process of determining its sex, but from the moment she’d learned of her pregnancy, she’d never thought of the baby as an “it”. She slapped her napkin onto the table and shot to her feet, ignoring the quavering the motion caused in her stomach. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Hugh. I won’t seek out any support from you, ever again.”_

Oh, how she cried that night, curled tight, hugging her knees to her chest as if to shield the baby from the grief that overwhelmed her. The only thing that had kept her from going over the deep end was the welcome she’d received by her father and stepmother. They’d been unflappable from the moment she’d tearfully confessed the nature of her situation and had remained so all through her pregnancy. The instant Julia had arrived erased all of Demelza’s doubts about her decision. True to his word, Hugh maintained his silent refusal to acknowledge the child, despite the card she’d sent him with the news. It had been one last chance she’d wished to give him the opportunity to have the delight of Julia’s presence in his life. Once done, Demelza never looked back.

There were times -- like this -- that the memories of his treatment of her that night still had the power to make her cry, although she thought it had more to do with the silly thoughts she was having about Ross Poldark than Hugh Armitage’s betrayal. And she should have known that there’d been no guarantee the soldier in Afghanistan would return her letter. It was simply a thank you note, with no strings attached, and he’d only been doing her daughter a kindness to return a toy that had strayed from its home.

The bell above the door tinkled and Demelza mopped her eyes with the edge of her apron before turning to greet her new customer. “Welcome to Demelza’s Delectables, and happy Valentine’s Day to you,” she said to the tall, leggy woman who stood in the doorway.

“To you as well,” the visitor said, closing the door. “Would you be Demelza by any chance?”

“Yes, I am,” Demelza responded, curiosity bubbling through her. “What can I do for you, Miss…”

“Enys. Caroline Enys.” She removed her hat and shook out the most magnificent mane of golden blonde hair Demelza had ever seen. “I know this will sound strange, coming from a complete stranger like this, but I’ve a message for you from Ross Poldark.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, y'all should know to expect a cliffie from me, but this one just might have been the worst one yet. Caroline ENYS? And she's delivering a message?! What the heck? 
> 
> #sorrynotsorry :-)
> 
> Thank you for your support and I promise you'll like where this is heading....


	4. Birmingham to Perranporth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started with a little surprise in a Christmas support package for a soldier in Afghanistan. A Modern Romelza AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something to celebrate the S4 premiere. Enjoy!

Caroline watched the young woman in front of her blink owlishly for several moments before giving her head a hard shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

She slipped the sleek Tiffany sunglasses from her eyes and offered a smile. “I've got a message for you from Captain Ross Poldark, from the 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards?” She set her hat on the wide glass countertop. The bakery smelled positively divine, and Caroline knew she’d not walk out the door without purchasing several things she had no business buying. “Or, I should say _about_ Ross. He and my husband are in the same unit.”

“Oh, I see,” Demelza breathed.

 _She was a pretty thing,_ Caroline thought to herself, despite the hairnet covering the mass of curly, red hair atop her head. As if reading her mind, Demelza snatched off the fine webbing, which sent a cascade of autumnal fire down her back. Caroline bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing: Ross was a goner. “Is he alright?”

 _No sense in sugar-coating it._ “He will be, soon enough. There was an incident about a month ago,” Caroline said, searching her bag for her eyeglass case. “I can’t give you the details, because I don’t know all of them myself, but Ross was injured.”

“Oh, God.”

The reedy sound of Demelza’s voice caused Caroline to stop what she was doing. The colour had leached from pretty girl’s cheeks. She reached out to place a steadying hand atop the lightly freckled one splayed upon the counter. “My dear, you look as if you’re able to topple over.” Caroline bustled around the bakery case and clasped Demelza’s hands in her own. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

“Y-Yes, in the back,” the baker gestured weakly towards a beaded curtain to their right. “But I need to close up first.”

“Never you mind that,” Caroline said, ushering the two of them through to the commercial kitchen. It was a small but tidy and efficient space, with a chunky butcher block table at the end of the marble countertop. She had no sooner plunked Demelza onto a stool before she’d raced to the front of the shop to flip the locks and turn off the neon “open” sign. By the time she’d returned, Demelza had pulled over a Brita pitcher and was starting to pour water into the first of two mugs with an unsteady grip. “Here, allow me.” The girl nodded her thanks, her hands slipping bonelessly into her aproned lap.

Caroline was grateful for the task because it gave her time to re-organise her thoughts. _You should have known better than to tease your way through that announcement so airily_. The truth was she’d been taken aback to see Demelza’s depth of concern in her unguarded, sea-green gaze. Dwight’s insistence that his wife visit the young woman’s bakery on Ross’s behalf had seemed somewhat laughable during their last Skype call, but she’d passed it off as just a well-aimed poke at Caroline and Ross’s mutual appreciation for one another. Dwight’s own mother had expressed a concern that the friendship his wife had with his best mate bordered along the line of impropriety, so his comment that “your boyfriend seems to have fallen arse over teakettle with a girl in Perranporth” had caused Caroline to snort with merry derision. Clearly, she’d been too quick to judge.

“Where is he?”

The question snapped Caroline out of her musings. “He was at Bastian immediately afterwards, but has since been transferred to Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham.”

The girl's eyes widened. "He's back in England?“

"Just last week."

"And he’s going to be alright?” Demelza asked. “Truly?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Caroline set the carafe down, a little flummoxed by the silvery tear sliding down her companion’s cheek. “Please forgive me, but I had no idea things had gotten this serious between the two of you.”

Demelza shook her head. “No, it’s not that,” she said, swiping at her tears. “I’m more than a little ashamed of myself, really.” Caroline’s confusion had to have been obvious, for the girl plunged into a rapid-fire explanation. “I was having a Valentine’s Day pity party because I hadn’t heard from a man over whom I had no business daydreaming only to come to find out he’s lying in a hospital bed somewhere in up north with injuries from a battle!”

The red, pink and white decorations in the window display made Caroline's heart tumble to her feet. She might be somewhat cynical about many things, but she had a special place in her soul for wartime romances. She'd always thought Ross's first choice for a girlfriend -- Elizabeth Chenoweth -- was never good enough for him and hadn't batted an eye when he'd told her of their break up. "About bloody time," she'd sniffed, only to be rewarded with one of Ross's trademark scowls.  Well, now Caroline had a front-row seat to the beginning of what she hoped would be a happier time for her best friend. 

She patted Demelza's hand. “Well, let me be the very first to assure you that Ross will make a full recovery, my dear." She slipped a folded envelope from the front pocket of her bag. "I was instructed to give you this.” She pleased at the way Demelza’s eyes widened when she saw the return address. “Not much of a Valentine’s card, but it should answer many of your questions.” _Now, to give her some privacy._ Caroline peered around innocently. “May I use your loo? I have a bit of a drive ahead of me this evening.”

 ~*~*~*~*~

Demelza waved as Caroline Penvenen’s sleek sedan eased away from the curb and closed the shop door. The envelope crinkled in her hand, so enticing despite the unfamiliar handwriting. She opened it with more haste than she ordinarily would have and paid the price when the sharp edge of the flap slid along her index finger. “Ouch,” she exclaimed, immediately thrusting the digit into her mouth, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue. She dutifully put the letter down while she sought a plaster and antibiotic cream. Moments later, she slipped the thin stationery free and read.

> _Ms Demelza Carne_  
>  _4 St Michael’s Road_  
>  _Perranporth_  
>  _TR6 0HQ_  
>  _UK_
> 
> _Dear Demelza,_
> 
> _Please accept my apology for not returning your lovely letter in a more timely manner. It was most definitely not my intent. As you have learned from my friend Caroline, I was injured on a mission two days after I’d received your letter. While I can’t disclose the details of the action, I can tell you there was an explosion and I sustained injuries to my right arm and leg along with the left side of my face. The doctors are optimistic, but further procedures are required before final word of my long-term prognosis are disclosed. These will take place once I return home at the end of February._
> 
> _I’ve had plenty of time to think, being stuck in this hospital bed, and have come to the conclusion that it’s nice to know that there is someone back home who cares. Not just about me -- that’s just arrogant -- but about all of the troops here. Your brother Samuel visited me a few days after the attack, and while I’m not overly religious, we had a chance to talk about the correspondence you and I have exchanged. He told me how you’ve always sought out ways to help the servicemen and women back home._
> 
> _Your shop is near the beach, yes? I’m a little envious of the fact you’re there, breathing in the smell of the sea and I’d give almost anything to stand at St Agnes Head or Gunwalloe during one of our winter storms with the wind blowing and the waves crashing on the cliffs. It is comforting to know someone who is walking the streets where I’ve walked and is seeing all of the beauty of Cornwall right now, especially since my ability to do either at this particular moment is not possible._
> 
> _Thank you for sharing the picture of the two of you from the holidays. Julia looks to be just as you described her, with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. She’s lovely, as is her mother._
> 
> _I hope you do not find my comments too forward. The doctors have given me hope that I shall be able to walk the beaches again someday very soon, perhaps by the end of the month. Should that be the case, I hope I will be able to visit upon my return home and share the sights with you both._
> 
> _I took a fair bit of stick from Dwight enlisting his help with writing this, so I am including my Skype details here. If you’re willing to give it a try, I’m available most of the time between 1600 and 2000 GMT._
> 
> _I look forward to hearing from you soon, Demelza. Please give Julia my very best and ask her to give Garrick a pat for me._
> 
> _Warm regards,_  
>  _Ross_

She read through the letter a second and third time, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. His thoughts about home, missing the winter storms and his longing for the cliffs gave her images of him wrapped in a thick pea coat, the collar turned up to shield him from the wind. And, she’d not been mistaken; it was clear she’d not been the only one spinning up thoughts about the two of them. It was hard to misinterpret a sentence that read “ _I hope I will be able to visit upon my return home and share the sights with you both”._

 _But not impossible, Demelza,_ she cautioned herself. _He may only be expressing a kindness.”_ Now wasn’t the time to build up pipe dreams based on two pieces of paper. She glanced at the clock on the wall of the shop. There was time enough for a call.

 


	5. Perranporth to Birmingham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started with a little surprise in a Christmas support package for a soldier in Afghanistan. A Modern Romelza AU.

_Thank God for Netflix,_ Ross thought to himself, and started the movie “Fargo” on his tablet. The military hospital in Birmingham may have been small and chock full of “old world charm” in other words, slightly dilapidated, but what it lacked for the conveniences of modern facilities it made up for with excellent internet access. A good thing, since he was bored out of his skull most of the time. Dwight said that his current mood was a positive sign. Ross disagreed; he simply hadn’t been forced to lie about in bed like this...ever. The amount of time tied to the damn thing had decreased, and he was allowed to spend good chunks of his day in the day room with the other blokes, playing cards or board games. It was the nights that would tend to set his mind to brooding.

He leaned back, only wincing slightly when he shifted his shoulder against the pillow. It was a vast improvement over how it had been nearly four weeks before, when his platoon had got itself blown to pieces. He hadn’t allowed himself to admit it to anyone else, but he’d been afraid, terribly afraid that he’d wind up losing his arm. He’d never seen that much blood in his life, and if it hadn’t been for Zacky, their medic, Ross was convinced he would have died. It wasn’t before they’d got him back to the infirmary at Helmand he realized he hadn’t been so lucky with his leg.

 

He scratched errantly at the dressing covering his stump. The good news, he’d been told, was they’d taken it off just below the knee and, given time, he would be able to adjust to a prosthetic that would return him to “his new normal”.

 

What in the hell would that be like, he wondered. He was part owner of a bustling agricultural business, and while he’d turned over the management of the farm to Verity, he’d always maintained responsibility for the livestock. He’d decided to sell off their animals before he’d deployed for the first time, and he’d missed hearing the sounds of horses and cows around the place. Hell, he’d even missed the bloody chickens.

Well, he certainly wouldn’t have another deployment to worry over. Another piece of good news, but one he hadn’t required the loss of a limb to turn into a reality. He’d decided to resign from the Queen’s 1st at the end of this tour before he’d even started it. The time had come for him to settle down, to sink his roots deep into the Cornish soil. He’d even considered making his relationship with Elizabeth permanent before their last blow-up. Memories of the words they’d all but spat at one another rushed back to him like a winter wind.

_“You’re acting like a spoilt child,” Ross barked, watching Elizabeth stride back and forth across their room. She was throwing shoes, garments and what had to be the contents of a department store cosmetics counter into the open luggage on their bed. “It can’t have been a surprise!”_

_She paused, her hand clutching a hairdryer. “But why another tour?”_

_“Because there is a war going on!” he said incredulously._

_“Oh, come off it, Ross,” she sneered, flinging a hairbrush after the dryer. “That excuse worked better three years ago, when we lost all of those soldiers. I never realised that you intended to make a career of it!”_

_Britain had sustained well over two hundred deaths between 2009 and 2010. During that time came the largest joint offensive to date involving 15,000 British, American and Afghan troops, to push the Taliban from their strongholds in central Helmand. Ross, Dwight and their friends had all signed up for what many had thought was misplaced patriotism in a war that had suffered from the distraction of Iraq. Whatever the reason, Ross had found great purpose during his service to his country, and the fact his girlfriend couldn’t understand that grated harder and deeper than ever before. And why was that? They’d been utterly besotted with one another for over a year before he signed up. At least he’d_ thought _she’d been in as deep as he. He’d never thought anyone like her would give him the time of day, let alone give him her number -- her_ actual _number -- at the end of a night of drink and dancing._

_Ross had no intention of quitting, of course, but this would be as good a time as any to test the waters. “So, by your logic, if I told you this would be my last tour you would change your mind about leaving?” he challenged._

_She sniffed. “If you planned to return and settle down into a decent career? I might.”_

Ah, the elephant in the room, _Ross thought. She’d already been a successful real estate agent when they’d met. He, on the other hand, had been aimless, fresh out of uni with a liberal arts degree with which he’d had no clue what to do. In the meantime, he’d agreed to help on the family farm. How was he to know he’d tumble into love with it? That he’d love the smell of the earth freshly turned and ready for planting? That a person could practically get themselves into a zen state while mucking out stables? That watching a new calf stand on its wobbly legs for the first time, all while being awash with blood and amniotic fluid could bring him such joy?_

_He’d tried to explain it to Elizabeth dozens of times, to no avail. She thought the whole thing “quaint”. She wanted him to join her in the real estate business, ridiculously enough. “Your history and respect the Poldark name holds over this region would be a natural selling point for our business,” she’d said, a mere six months after he’d started with the farm. It had been the first of her references to his ancient family name, and he’d hoped it would have been her last. But she’d persisted, whenever opportunity had knocked, and it set his teeth on edge every time._

_Perhaps_ that _had been when things started to sour. That’s when the news of high casualty counts began flooding the airwaves...opportunity knocking again?_

So much for unconditional love. _“You know what?” he barked, storming to the closet to get his duffle bag. “You don’t have to leave. Consider me gone.” He almost laughed at the expression on her face, for her mouth formed a perfect O. “I’ll be a thousand times happier spending my last week at base.”_

That had been in July of last year, and in all that time she’d never inquired into the state of things between them. He’d only learned about her hooking up with his cousin Francis from Verity after the two eloped a month ago. Ross hadn’t felt a thing, although he _had_ been heavily sedated at the time. But now, after he’d been off the painkillers for a week, he found himself unmoved by the sudden shift in his former girlfriend’s affections. Fairly shocking, considering how besotted he’d been when they first met, overwhelmed by her patrician beauty.

Could it be that he’d begun to fancy someone new?

The picture of Demelza and Julia sat on the nightstand next to his bed. He picked it up, toying with edges that had become worn over the last few weeks. The mischievousness found in the little girl’s eyes couldn’t help but make him smile. He’d never admit to anyone, but when the doctors began discussing different kinds of prosthetics, his first thought had been to ask for one that would allow him to walk on the beach near Nampara while he pictured little Julia building a sand castle, her mother near his side.

He scowled.  “You’ve exchanged a grand total of four letters between you, you idiot,” he muttered aloud, giving himself a mental kick. It was about the only thing a one-legged man could manage. He’d sent her his Skype details his last letter to her, mostly on a whim. A hope that they could spend more time talking, to see if the small inklings of interest could grow to something more, perhaps? He’d come to regret it the next day when they’d removed the bandages off his face and he’d seen the scar running from the edge of his brow, barely skirting the corner of his eye before falling another three inches along his cheek. He imagined he would scare little Julia to death if she’d seen him. He looked like a goddamn pirate, complete with a peg leg. All he was missing was the parrot. “Save the artful pursuit of romance until you’ve actually spoken with the woman.”

Just then, Skype’s familiar alert tone chirped through the speakers of his earbuds. He glanced down at his iPad to see he was receiving a call from an unknown number. He pressed his finger on the green phone button. “Hello?” The line was silent for a moment, so he cleared his throat. “Hello, Captain Poldark speaking.”

“H-Hullo?” The voice was soft and melodic, feminine and full of Cornwall. “C-Captain Poldark, this is Demelza Carne.” His heart gave a loud, hard thud in his chest as he stared, open-mouthed at the screen. “Captain?”

“D-Demelza.” Now it was his turn to stammer back to life. “Hello, please, call me Ross.” He grinned unexpectedly, swallowing a expletive as the skin near the scar stretched. “How are you?”

“I’m well, but I should be asking you that question,” she said. The tightness of the nerves he’d first heard in her voice were easing with each passing word. “I’m that sorry to hear of your injuries, Ross. How long have you been back here in England?”

“About two weeks now,” he answered, running his hand along his uninjured cheek. God, he needed a shave.

“Is it nice to be back? Oh, God, _of course_ it must be nice to be back,” she groaned.

“It’s alright, it’s very nice to be back,” he laughed, wincing slightly once again at the tightness of the scar. “I’ve missed the cool, damp air.”

“Samuel says the same thing when he arrives home.” She paused. “Were there other soldiers injured?”

He closed his eyes, trying to erase the images of Kevin and Randall lying still and silent, only five feet from where he’d lain. “We lost two of our guys, with another ten wounded.”

“Oh, Ross,” Demelza murmured. “I remember hearing about the incident on the news. He could hear the emotion in her voice. “How are you doing?”

He sighed. “I’m healing well, according to the doctors here. I’ve another two weeks to go before they’ll consider letting me return home.” He eyed the blankets covering his lower body, the missing lower half of his right leg clearly noticeable. “I’ll have quite an adjustment to make once I get there.” _Understatement of the decade_ , he thought to himself.

“Oh, well, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” she offered.

"That is very kind of you.” Ross’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He reached into the drawer next to his bed and pulled out the wallet Dwight had stored all of Ross’s personal effects. The photo of Demelza and Julia slid out of the bill fold into his lap. Two pairs of sparkling blue eyes smiled cheekily up at him. He remembered the brief conversation he’d had with Demelza’s brother, Samuel, a few days before the mission that changed everything. _“She’s the most empathetic person in the world,”_ the chaplain had said with an unmistakable note of caution, so it wasn’t as if Ross hadn’t got the message, but he knew he was in trouble. “Can I ask you a question, Demelza?”

“Certainly,” she stated almost before he’d finished his sentence.

In for a penny. “Would you care to chat on video?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Demelza froze. Had she heard him correctly? Video? Several moments passed before he cleared his throat, jarring her from her shock. “Hello?”

“Y-Yes! Yes, Ross, I’m here,” she gabbled. “V-video, my goodness, do you think so?”

“I’m game if you are.”  She caught her reflection in the window and blanched. She had flour on her cheek and her hair was a fright. Her apron was in even worse shape. _Oh God._  “In all seriousness, it would be nice to see you,” he added.

The timbre of his voice pitched lower. It was doing unholy things to her stomach. And other places. “It…it would nice to see you, too,” she admitted. She scrubbed the heel of her hand against her floured face. “Were you thinking about trying it now?”

“God, no,” he chuckled.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Demelza giggled on the edge of a sigh of relief.

“I was thinking of tomorrow, about the same time,” he continued. “Trust me, you would run screaming if you were to see me in my current state.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, leaning against the door jamb of the kitchen. “I’m a bit of a mess myself. It’s has been a very busy day here at the bakery.”

“Moreso than usual?” he asked. She didn’t have a chance to speak before she heard the slap of a hand on flesh. “Wait a second...it’s the fourteenth, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, her heart in her throat.

“Happy Valentines Day, Demelza,” Ross murmured.

She blushed, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you as well.”

“So, we’ve a date?”

She could hear his grin. _Keep it together, girl,_ she thought to herself. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support. I've seen kudos and comments come in for several of my stories and have appreciated every single one of them during the last several months. I had no intention for so much time to pass before posting this chapter...Real Life™ reared its extremely ugly head during the fall and early winter of 2018 and I'm only now starting to feel like my old self again. I hope it won't be as long next time...


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